50 Ways To Destroy A Mobile
by starrysummernights
Summary: It's an occupational hazard, John knows, but really it's becoming a bit much. The sales clerks know them by name at this point. AU. Eventual Johnlock.
1. The Hazards of Trees

**Welcome to my latest writing endeavor! Well, this story does what it says on the tin, folks! Herein we'll have 50 chapters, each one portraying a different way in which Sherlock (or John) have their mobile destroyed or otherwise rendered unusable. I have plenty of ideas but I'd love to hear from you, the reader, and take any prompts (whether they be funny, sad, fluffy, or angsty) you may have for this series.**

**Thanks for reading! Enjoy! :)**

* * *

The first time it happened was on their fourth case together, a case involving what appeared to be a double homicide in a secluded part of Epping Forest. Sherlock had been called in on Lestrade's recommendation and John, having been unenthusiastically envisioning his day wasted on telly and aimlessly surfing the internet, had been glad of it.

On the train ride to the scene, he silently sat beside Sherlock who, engrossed in his mobile, wasn't amenable to conversation. Which was fine, but John was still getting used to his strange flatmate and his odd, anti-social behaviors. It went against what John was used to, sitting with someone and not make unnecessary small-talk. Commenting about the weather, his job, how Sherlock's job…hobby…quirk…_occupation_ was going. Maybe talking about his latest date, the e-mail he'd received from an army mate last week.

Except his thus-far brief acquaintance with Sherlock had taught him that the genius didn't want to hear any of that, and would either pointedly ignore John if he started rattling on or roll his eyes in withering exasperation and inform John there was no need for him to fill the silence with unnecessary jabbering.

So, instead of pointlessly rambling, John faced the window and watched the city flash past, the quiet murmur of the rest of the passengers in their car and the rhythmic tapping of Sherlock on his mobile a pleasant background noise.

When they reached their station, John followed Sherlock through the throng of people and out into the bright sunshine of an unclouded, fall day. Breathing deeply, enjoying the crisp, fresh air of the open space, he waited for Sherlock to flag down a cab, always impressed with the speed and efficiency with which his friend accomplished it.

Probably had to do with his gargantuan height, John thought a bit sourly as a cab smoothly pulled up to the curb, summoned by Sherlock's simple, long-armed wave.

One short cab ride later and the two were striding through the brilliantly colored forest of Epping, easily locating the roped-off crime scene with at least a dozen officers milling about- and even more bystanders lined around the perimeter.

"Mr. Holmes? I'm Inspector Donaldson." The inspector, a female with close-cropped brown hair and a no-nonsense expression, extended her hand to Sherlock and gave John a stern glare. "No civilians allowed-"

"Oh, he's with me. My assistant."

"Detective Inspector Lestrade didn't say anything about your assistant." Inspector Donaldson said suspiciously, giving John a once-over.

"I'm sure he just forgot. Doctor Watson." John gave her a winsome smile and extended his own hand, which was deliberately ignored as Inspector Donaldson turned away.

"Just make sure and watch your assistant, Mr. Holmes. I won't be responsible for him stepping all over the evidence."

John glared in response to Sherlock's smug smirk, but still followed him over to where the bodies were, with no small amount of trepidation.

It was never easy to see such violence perpetrated on one's fellow man.

The two bodies lay on the ground, a male and female. Both were mangled and broken, blood pooled beneath them, a gruesome patina against the already fallen leaves.

"They were found this morning by a jogger. Married couple on vacation. They were checked into a local hotel for a few nights…"

John nodded as the inspector spoke but Sherlock ignored her, pulling out his magnifying glass and stooping over the bodies.

John and Inspector Donaldson watched him work in silence for almost a full minute before she began to fidget, obviously doubting that Sherlock was deducing anything from the bodies and beginning to suspect he was simply as crazy as the rumors had claimed.

"Well, Mr. Holmes?"

"This is exactly where you found the bodies?" Sherlock asked, looking speculatively at the tree the couple lay beneath.

"Yes." The inspector crossed her arms. "I need any information you can-"

"I need to climb this tree."

"N-no." She glanced, confused, between John and Sherlock, then looked up, up, up at the tree. "It's illegal to climb the trees in the forest."

"A law our couple were obviously not aware of. Otherwise they would still be alive." Sherlock replied. "Have you already gathered all the relevant data from the tree?"

"What relevant data?" She asked, her voice sliding into the mocking pitch most of Scotland Yard used when dealing with Sherlock.

Sherlock, however, just smiled tightly.

* * *

"You really think this is a good idea?" John asked in a low voice as Sherlock peeled his gloves off in preparation for his climb, not wanting the surrounding officers to hear. He felt confident in betting serious money that Sherlock hadn't spent much time outdoors, let alone ever climbed a tree before in his life. He was much more of a city boy and looked very out of place against the leafy backdrop of the forest.

Sherlock gave John an enigmatic smile, eyes glinting, and John knew he'd just inadvertently issued a challenge to the childish genius.

Sherlock jumped, grabbed hold of the lowest branch of the tree, and swung himself up in a flurry of long legs and woolen coat.

John sighed and hovered beneath Sherlock as he climbed, watching him carefully, ready to make the best attempt possible at catching him should he fall.

Not that it would help much. They'd probably both end up either injured or dead.

Sherlock's shoes weren't made for climbing trees and more than once his feet slipped on the slick branches and only a quick grab at the next branch or the rough trunk of the tree saved him from plummeting to his death.

John could feel his hairs greying as he watched Sherlock's ascent.

"Is he serious?"

John glanced at the disbelieving inspector before turning his attention back to Sherlock, just in time to see him falter, feet kicking wildly, before righting himself again.

"Shit." John breathed. "Yeah, he's serious."

He moved further to the right, trying to gauge the correct angle Sherlock would plummet, and placing himself accordingly.

"Well?" He called up, hoping Sherlock got what he needed soon and made his way back down again. He'd feel much better when those expensively shod feet were firmly back on the ground.

"Murder-suicide."

"What?"

"It was a murder-suicide. Or _accidental_ suicide, more appropriately. They weren't murdered then moved here- you could tell that from the way their bones are broken and the various contusions. They fell from this tree- I saw their blood splashed on the branches on the way up. He was unconscious when he fell, though."

John shared a glance with Inspector Donaldson. "How?"

"Scratch marks on some of the branches and she was missing fingernails. His were still intact- not only that but the contusion on his head. She hit him with some object- oh, fu- _look out_!"

John, heart leaping at the harried expulsion, afraid his flatmate was falling to his death from the tree, glanced up, arms extended in what he knew was a futile effort to catch him- only to watch, nonplussed, as Sherlock's mobile cascaded down instead. It glinted in the sunlight as it hurtled through the leaves and ominously cracked as it bounced from branch to branch on its way down.

John made an effort to catch it- a useless one as the phone dropped to the ground and disappeared in a small mound of leaves before he was even able to take a step forward.

He quickly glanced up to find Sherlock haphazardly swinging his way down in pursuit of his mobile and John waited until Sherlock was close enough that a fall wouldn't seriously injure him before he fished into the pile of leaves for the phone.

He winced as he fingered the cracked screen and pushed the power button, surprised when the screen actually lit up. The image was splintered, though, Sherlock's simple black and blue lock screen fractured into hundreds of pixels and John sighed as the gangly consulting detective landed heavily beside him, reaching for his phone.

"Sorry, mate. I tried to catch it but…"

Sherlock took his phone, turning it over in his hands, frowning in irritation. "It's not your fault, John." He said, and John knew it hadn't been, but he still felt he was being punished as, for the rest of the day, Sherlock was unbearably snappish and petulant. So much so, that eventually John was forced from the flat or risk punching Sherlock in his annoying, pretty face.

* * *

**This idea for this case came from one of those late-night crime shows, which my mother-in-law loves. In this particular one, the couple had been climbing trees and the wife knocked her husband unconscious in order to make his death look like he slipped when climbing the tree, thereby absolving her of any guilt in his death. It went wrong when she herself slipped from the tree and died as well.**

**I wish I could remember that show... It was a very odd one.**


	2. Revenge

**Thanks for the support everyone! I've got some great ideas from everyone on how to destroy John's and Sherlock's mobiles. Keep'em coming- if you want!**

**I've got a few questions about whether or not these chapters are connected or take place in the same universe. The answer is YES. These all take place sequentially and in the same universe. Hence the eventual Johnlock. We will get there- and will eventually destroy a mobile 50 times.**

* * *

"Where is it? What have you done with it?" Sherlock demanded, upending the coffee table as if expecting to find his mobile taped to the underside.

John watched him search the flat, remarkably calm for someone who had spent the better part of a free afternoon cleaning what Sherlock was now intent on destroying. All in a quest to find his missing mobile "I haven't seen it."

"You had to have done!" Sherlock expostulated, scooting aside the overturned table and pressing himself to the floor to peer beneath the sofa. "It was here when I left earlier-"

"_Sherlock_! I haven't seen your bloody mobile! Are you sure you didn't leave it at the morgue? Or..or…" John shrugged and gestured helplessly. "I don't know. Maybe one of your homeless network took it? Or-"

"My mobile was not _stolen_, John!" Sherlock straightened from his crouch, his face red, both from the position and anger. "And I did not _leave_ it somewhere. _Me_? Forget something like that?" He pushed himself up and stalked to John, his eyes narrowed into slits. "You've done something with it."

"What-"

"This is for what I said yesterday on your blog!" Sherlock accused, fists clenched. "I didn't realize you'd be so childish about it-"

"I'm not being childish- and _hang on_! What you said was bang out of order-"

"What? You mean when I called your ramblings stupid, short-sighted, and lacking all the relevant data to make them even remotely readable? Was that 'bang out of order?' Is that the comment to which you're referring?"

John grit his teeth so hard he felt his jaw pop.

"I'll interpret your silence as yes." Sherlock prodded him snidely.

"You know what- yeah, and-"

"Ah, so you're admitting you hid my mobile!" Sherlock said triumphantly, throwing up his hands and spinning away from a now seriously angry John Watson to fling the cushions from John's chair left and right.

"Sherlock! _I didn't hide your mobile_!" John shouted, reaching the end of his patience with the overgrown child he was living with.

Sherlock paid him no attention and began opening and shutting desk drawers with loud, ear throbbing bangs.

When he made to flip the desk over though, John had had enough.

"Oi!" He pushed Sherlock away from the desk, Sherlock turned to him, snarling, reminding John of an angry Great Dane-

And the next he knew they were both fighting, childishly shouting at each other and throwing punches and kicking at whatever exposed body part they could reach.

When they separated, both panting, John sporting a cut lip and Sherlock pinching his nose together to stop the flow of blood (he hadn't been punched- he had accidentally rammed his nose into John's knee while he was scrambling to get into a better position from which to punch at John from) they both wearily called truce.

John patched them up and afterward Sherlock made an effort at tea, wordless apologies that smoothed everything over.

They never found Sherlock's mobile, despite many aggravating hours searching- and calling and calling and calling it until the battery on John's mobile died.

Sherlock was finally forced to concede defeat after a few days of fruitless searching, resentfully grumbling and still rather suspicious of John, and purchase a new one.

* * *

When the cabbie found the Blackberry in his backseat at the end of his shift, his first thought was to do the right thing and turn it in. It looked expensive, all sleek and shiny, without a scratch on it. Someone had obviously paid a lot of money for it and would be desperate to find it.

Then he remembered which passenger he'd seen using this mobile: the curly-haired one with the haughty expression who'd been covered in some disgusting smelling fluid and who'd told him he was the worst cabbie he'd ever had the misfortune to ride with- and he'd been driven round London by a serial killing cabbie on one occasion.

He hadn't tipped when he got out either, the cabbie remembered sourly. Like it'd been _his_ fault traffic had been so shit and he'd had to take multiple detours.

He felt a vindictive pleasure when he drove over the mobile with his cab, the plastic making a delicious _crunching_ sound beneath his tires.


	3. Jealousy

_Bing!_

Sherlock's eyes snapped open in annoyance and he cast an irritated look across the room at John. His eyes narrowed as John's face broke into a delighted grin as he palmed his mobile, flicking at the screen to read his new text message. Unaware of Sherlock's growing frustration with him, John blushed faintly and bit his lip to contain an impish grin as he read the message from his new girlfriend. He cocked his head to the side speculatively as he stared at his mobile, wondering how to respond.

Finally, an idea struck. John debated with himself, wondering if it was appropriate. Not entirely. In fact, it was rather perverted. Tastefully so. He scanned her previous messages, decided nothing she'd said that day would be considered 'appropriate'- and really, if she didn't want him to respond in kind she shouldn't have said what she did earlier about his jeans and their _fit_. Chuckling to himself, he started pecking out his naughty message.

Across the room, sprawled wantonly on the sofa, Sherlock's eyes narrowed further, picking up on the obvious signs of arousal John was displaying. New girlfriend texting him, then. Name? Unimportant. He wasn't going to waste time memorizing her name and what she did for a living because he doubted she'd last longer than the other four girlfriends John had thus far had.

For a seemingly mild-mannered man, John was apparently a lothario of legendary proportions. Sherlock frowned. He hadn't been able to deduce _that_.

_Bing!_

John giggled and immediately began typing out his reply.

Sherlock remembered meeting the girlfriend a few days ago, entirely by accident. He'd ran into her leaving the flat on John's arm and it'd been obvious John had wanted to avoid that exact situation. John had tried to usher her along, smiling and nodding at Sherlock, explaining they'd made reservations, they were running late, etc. Sherlock had thought him unpardonably rude. So he'd introduced himself to the girl, smiling charmingly, and she'd fallen for it.

John hadn't been impressed. He'd gave Sherlock a _stare_ the entire time they'd conversed but Sherlock thought he'd behaved very well, all things considered. He'd even restrained himself from deducing the woman.

To her face.

He'd let John know what he'd found out as soon as his flatmate had returned from his date. John had protested, not wanting to hear, but Sherlock knew he had anyway- even if his fingers _had_ been in his ears. John could be so childish sometimes.

And if John still wanted to date her after Sherlock told him about her unhealthy obsession with cats, her dropping out of high school, the string of jobs she couldn't hold on to because of a general laziness, the penchant for gypsy skirts, the brother in jail, and her deviant sexual practices on the weekends which involved leather, paddles, and _clamps_…well, that was John's business. Sherlock had done the "friendly thing" and told him.

Sherlock continued to watch as John, smirking, finishing typing out his reply, his tongue between his teeth and a wicked glint in his eye. The sight made something low clench in Sherlock's abdomen. He assumed it was disgust.

Sherlock rolled his eyes before closing them, adjusting his hands beneath his chin, and trying to pick up his train of thought before he'd been so impolitely-

_Bing!_

His eyes snapped open again and he sighed, long and exasperated.

"What?" John asked absently as he read the message.

"Must you do that _here_?"

"Do what?" John didn't look up from his mobile.

"_That_."

"What? _Text_?" John asked, incredulous, finally glancing up at Sherlock. Sherlock glared back.

"Yes."

"You know, you may not be aware of it, Sherlock, but I live here too and if I want to text in my own goddamn sitting room-"

"I'm trying to think, John, and it's annoying watching you act like a prepubescent teenage girl over a few racy text messages. Go do it elsewhere." Sherlock snapped peevishly, feeling his cheeks flush in anger. John's eyes widened before he squared his jaw and regarded Sherlock quietly. Oh, so he was angry? That was fine. Sherlock was angry too, and he wasn't one to be intimidated. He matched John look for look, his face imperious and blank, daring John to look away first-

_Bing!_

John broke eye contact, swiping at his mobile, and Sherlock felt a stab of annoyance at the interruption. He huffed, tossing himself dramatically around on the sofa and turning so his back was to John, burying his face in the cushions and closing his eyes.

This time, John giggled at the message and it didn't take a genius to deduce his girlfriend, the cat-obsessed sexual deviant, was being very, _very_ naughty.

Sherlock's lips tightened as he heard the quiet _peck-peck-peck_ as John replied.

He wondered what John was saying. Something equally devious and disgusting, most likely. The idea of what things John could say…Sherlock fisted the cushions tightly.

_Bing!_

The sound of John choking on air as he gasped was loud in the stillness of the flat.

Sherlock refused to open his eyes, refused to turn around. He wasn't thinking about the case anymore. He wasn't even trying. He couldn't concentrate. Not when-

_Bing!_

When he heard John's muffled whine, Sherlock abruptly reached the limit of his patience.

He jackknifed off the sofa. He didn't look at John as he snatched the mobile from his hands.

"Hey! What d'you think you're doing!"

Sherlock glanced at the screen, catching a glimpse of a pair of white breasts filling the mobile's screen. The edges of his vision went red.

Ignoring John's shouted protests and desperate attempts to retrieve the phone, Sherlock turned and hurled the mobile out the open sitting room window.

"_Sherlock_!" John dashed to the window and leaned out, looking down where the shattered remains of his mobile lay scattered on the pavement. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"I couldn't concentrate." Sherlock replied, straightening his dressing gown before sweeping from the room, leaving an ominous silence in his wake.


	4. Stabbing

The rain sluiced down in wind-blown sheets, icy drops working their insidious way down collars and inside shoes, leaving the wearer uncomfortable and cold. Shivering. Teeth chattering.

John thought he would never be warm again.

He'd had the thought before, but this time he was convinced of it. He was soaked through, his coat, shirt, vest, jeans, and skin drenched in the icy rain which, judging by the temperature- below freezing- should have been snow. It would have been better if it were snow. He thought he'd be better able to tolerate it somehow. At least then he might not have been so…wet.

It. Was. _Cold_.

John's lips, nose, and cheeks were red and numbed. His fingers, jammed in the damp pockets of his coat, were twinging in pain they were so cold. Which was not good. He knew it wasn't a good sign.

_However_, Sherlock still hadn't caught the murderer they were looking for- which was more not good than John's slowly-going-frostbitten extremities. Which was why he and John were still out on this godforsaken night, skulking down a shady alleyway on the chance their suspect would arrive.

It was a slim chance, John thought, squinting into the dark, sniffing, his nose running and he hadn't a tissue. Who the hell besides him and Sherlock- whose sanity was questioned daily- would be out tonight?

_Who_?

No one, that was who. They'd seen no one in the past two hours- even random passersby- and John was ready to call it a night and retreat back to Baker Street.

Sherlock, though, wasn't ready. He was convinced tonight was _the night_ their man would show up and John, cursing and stamping his feet, remained. Just to provide Sherlock with backup should he need it.

And that was the _only_ reason John was staying. He certainly wasn't staying for the company because he and Sherlock weren't speaking to each other.

Or well, _John_ wasn't speaking to _Sherlock_, not since Sherlock had tossed John's mobile out the window last week, refused to apologize for it, and then not even offered to buy John a new one. Sherlock seemed to think John had, in some bizarre way, _deserved_ to have his mobile destroyed in such a careless manner. He'd said as much the next day over breakfast.

So John was freezing Sherlock out. Not very effectively: Sherlock hadn't even realized what John was doing until three days into his "punishment." Then, he'd snorted and kept right on talking, apparently not needing John's input to actually have a conversation with him. John had left the room to deny Sherlock his very presence but had still been able to hear Sherlock ostensibly talking to him from all the way downstairs.

It was infuriating.

John's anger at what Sherlock had done was still fresh and was renewed every time he reached for his new mobile. It had been the cheapest one at the shop- the only one John had been able to afford- and it was horrible for texting. Or taking pictures. Or making calls in general. The reception was shit but…it was all he'd have until the next time Harry decided she wanted a new mobile.

It was a depressing thought. John had got used to having all the bells and whistles on his old mobile and going without them was a learning experience. He felt like a man marooned on a desert island with no contact from the outside world. Which was ridiculous. He'd done without a mobile with e-mail enabled and GPS ability in Afghanistan, and he'd done without one before he'd joined the Army. He could do it again…but he still missed it.

He sighed, leaning against the brick wall of the alley, which felt warm to his freezing skin. God, what he wouldn't give for a cup of tea, the steam rising up and warming his face, a cozy chair by the fire, bundled in blankets and dozing-

"_John_!"

At Sherlock's shout John whirled around, immediately on alert, eyes scanning the darkness for whatever had alarmed the consulting detective. He saw a shape at the end of their alley move, a dark presence his eyes barely discerned from the rest of the shadows-

But as soon as he had seen the person, John was running after him, trusting that Sherlock had seen something he had not.

"Oi! _Stop_!" He shouted as the other man- their suspect, he realized as he drew closer- made to run.

John had time to feel a flash of genuine surprise that the man had done as told and actually stopped, turning around-

Before he saw the glint of light off the blade held in the suspect's hands.

Time seemed to slow.

Mere seconds drug past at an impossibly sluggish pace.

It felt as if John had all the time in the world to counter the attack. It was an absurd notion.

John skidded to a stop, his feet slipping on the rain-soaked pavement-

The suspect- desperate and cornered- lunged-

Sherlock shouted. John frantically backpedaled.

Red hot agony ripped across John's torso. He cried out, tripped over his own feet and fell to the pavement on his side. Hard. The movement jolted him, pain raced up his side and the protective, soundless bubble of time he'd been in popped.

Everything rushed back into focus in stunning clarity on fast forward.

The first thing he became aware of were footsteps, running toward him, and John was marshaling himself to fend off an attack when Sherlock dropped to his side, his face ashen in the feeble beam of his torch, eyes too wide and bright in the darkness. He looked fey-like, otherworldly in an enchanting way that made John almost recoil, not recognizing him.

"John."

Fingers probed at his side and John hissed, cried out at the intrusion which sent licks of fire all along his torso.

"You've been stabbed." Sherlock's voice was shaking. His fingers, when they came away from John's wound, were covered in blood. They both stared in shock at the blood coating Sherlock's trembling fingers before Sherlock snapped out of his surprise. With one hand he reached for his mobile, dialing Lestrade, and with the other he applied pressure to John's wound.

It hurt. Well, of course it hurt, and John tired not to whimper or protest too much. It was necessary. He knew he was losing blood. How much, he didn't know- couldn't tell in the relative darkness of the alleyway- but it felt like a lot.

Or maybe that was just wetness from the rain. He'd been soaked from earlier…

Had he landed in a puddle?

He was getting woozy. Everything was spinning. Sherlock's face doubled and tripled before going back to normal.

"John. The paramedics are on their way."

"Ok." John gritted out, trying to be stoic despite the flashes of black at the periphery of his vision which let him know he'd be blacking out soon. He clenched his hands into fists at his sides, fighting the rising panic that anyone would feel at being injured potentially bleeding out on the pavement.

"Don't close your eyes." Sherlock commanded, the tinge of panic in his voice making John peel his eyes open and stare up at him. He looked worried, his forehead creased and his lips shaking.

"I'll be fine." John said shortly, not really having it in him to comfort Sherlock as his side gave a horrible throb of pain. He whimpered and bit his lip. Oh, Jesus…

The minutes lengthened, drug past agonizingly slowly. Sherlock's ears were pricked, straining to hear the distant wail of the ambulance. He was positively vibrating with tension. John was just trying not to pass out. He felt he was losing more blood than he was aware of.

"You need…to press down harder….apply more pressure." John instructed, his voice slurred, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth.

Sherlock tried but cursed, fumbling into John's jacket to retrieve the hard lump which was in the way, preventing him from pressing down harder.

When John's ears stopped ringing from the onslaught of fresh pain all the movement had caused, he managed to make out what Sherlock was trying to tell him.

"-mobile deflected the knife. Took the brunt of the attack. The knife only skimmed along your side. It wasn't a direct stab." He sounded relieved. John felt there wasn't anything to be relieved about.

"Is it ruined?" He asked, not recognizing the sound of his own voice in his ears.

"What?"

"My mobile." John repeated. This was important. "Is it ruined?"

"Yes. The screen's splintered and the plastic gouged-"

"Christ." John sighed. "Jesus fuckering fucking fuck."

"There's no need to be calling on the deities yet, John. I'm sure it can be fixed-"

"Says you." John replied sharply. He was feeling distinctly…spinny. "I can't bloody afford another one, Sherlock."

"I'll buy you a new one." Sherlock promised. "I'm… I'm sorry I destroyed your other one. See? John, I'm sorry. Just don't close your eyes." He slapped John's face in an effort to keep him awake, his voice rising in panic when John was sluggish to respond. "_John_! I promise I'll buy you a new mobile. I was wrong to toss your other one- John! Stay awake- don't close your- _John_!" Sherlock slapped him again.

This time there was no response.

Heart lurching sickeningly in his chest, Sherlock pressed down harder on the wound and checked for a heartbeat. He nearly fainted himself from relief when he found it and he swore that he would buy John the best, most flashiest mobile money could buy as soon as he knew his friend would be safe.

* * *

**I destroyed my own cell phone earlier this week (is that coincidence or what?) and the loaner phone from my cell company is slowly killing me. Thank God it's just a loaner, though. So, I may have written myself into this chapter just a tad. :)**


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